For me, cooking is about finding beauty in the mess. There are so many moving parts—ingredients, cooks, farmers,
fishermen, producers—and somehow they all come together on one plate.

Over time, I’ve learned that my role as a chef is not to control every part of that story, but to respect it and bring it together. Humility has become very important to me. A dish is never the work of one person; it is the result of a much bigger culinary chain, and I believe in recognizing all the people who make that chain work.

My cooking has also evolved by letting go of ego. Today I’m less interested in adding something simply to impress and more interested in understanding what really belongs on the plate. That also means working with intention and creating as little waste as possible.

So, if I had to define my culinary identity in one idea, it would be finding beauty in complexity, while cooking with humility, respect and purpose.

I believe there is a kind of natural perfection in Baja that comes from things co-existing at the right time and in the
right place. The sea, the desert, the vineyards and the farms may seem like very different worlds, but here they belong to the same landscape.

As a chef, I don’t feel that I need to force those elements together. My job is to pay attention—to understand the
season, the ingredient, where it comes from, and when it is at its best. When you respect that, the connection happens naturally.

Baja’s culinary language comes from that sense of place. It is not about trying to put the sea, the desert and the vineyard on every plate. It is about allowing what is happening around us, at that particular moment, to determine what belongs on the plate.

There is a natural perfection in that simplicity: the right ingredient, at the right time, in the right place.

If I have to choose one ingredient, it would be garlic. It may sound almost too simple, but for me it is indispensable.
Raw garlic is part of my everyday cooking, but I especially love what happens when you roast it. It becomes
sweeter, deeper and, for me, somehow more valuable. I use it in almost every expression—raw, roasted, confit,
charred—because each technique reveals a completely different side of the same ingredient.

Seafood and fresh vegetables are equally important to my kitchen. Cooking in Baja gives us access to extraordinary
products, and I find myself most inspired when an ingredient arrives fresh and at the right moment.

Over the years, I’ve learned that good cooking is not necessarily about doing more. It’s about understanding what an ingredient needs—and sometimes having the restraint to leave it alone. Beautiful seafood, a vegetable at its peak,
garlic and good technique can be more exciting to me than a plate with twenty different components.

Balance is a difficult thing to achieve, not only in the kitchen but in life. Some days you have it, and other days
balance sounds like a fantasy.
I naturally love intuitive expression. I like cooking from instinct and responding to what is happening in front of
me. But I also keep reminding myself to get out of my comfort zone—to learn a different technique, work with an
unfamiliar ingredient, or put myself in a situation where I don’t already know the answer.
Interestingly, I often find balance when I’m a little uncomfortable: cooking in a different kitchen, surrounded by
new people, working with different ingredients and elements. Those situations force technique and intuition to meet.
I have to rely on what I know while remaining open to what I don’t.
One of the most exciting moments in cooking is when I surprise myself with new flavors or techniqe. That’s usually
when I know I’ve found the balance.

It is an honor to respect what is behind a wine label. There is a tremendous amount of work, time and intention that goes into that bottle, and as a chef I feel a responsibility to understand it before I decide what should accompany it.

I pay attention to the wine’s personality—its aromas, acidity, structure and flavors—and then think about how the dish can become part of that conversation. The goal is not for the food to compete with the wine, or for the wine simply to accompany the food. Ideally, each one reveals something in the other that you might not have noticed on its own.

And sometimes you get it wrong. You taste the pairing and realize the dish needs to go back to the kitchen. You change an element, adjust the acidity, remove something, or start again. I think respecting the wine also means being modest enough to do that.

A great pairing, for me, is when neither the food nor the wine has to fight for your attention. Together, they become a better experience.

I’ve seen Valle de Guadalupe transform more than once, and I’ve also seen its people find ways to maneuver through difficult times. That resilience is part of what makes the region so special.

I believe Valle has an enormous amount to offer as an international wine and culinary destination, but its future
depends on our ability to respect the land and its own rules. Growth alone cannot be the measure of success. We have to address sustainability seriously—particularly how we use and protect the resources that allow this place to exist in the first place.

I think Valle can only get better if we learn to grow without losing what made people fall in love with it. The opportunity is tremendous, but so is the responsibility.

For me, luxury has to make sense.

A high price tag should reflect what the guest is actually receiving. Sometimes you discover true luxury dining in
unexpected places, where every detail feels authentic and intentional: a comfortable chair made from real materials,
beautiful floors, exceptional plateware, knowledgeable staff, extraordinary ingredients and culinary techniques that
surprise you without feeling unnecessary.

And sometimes you experience the opposite—a restaurant that presents itself as luxury and charges accordingly, but
the experience behind the price doesn’t feel genuine.

So today, I don’t define luxury by how expensive or impressive something appears. I define it by coherence.
From the moment you arrive—the valet, the welcome, the comfort of the chair—to the knowledge of the staff, the
quality of the products, the culinary proposal and, finally, the bill, everything should make sense together.

When authenticity, quality, technique, service and price are all in harmony, that, to me, is luxury.

Sustainability is a huge subject, and I think some of the most meaningful practices are the ones the guest will never see.

Waste management is fundamental. Something as unglamorous as properly managing grease matters because it
protects our plumbing and ultimately the infrastructure around us. Inventory practices matter. Portioning matters.

When you portion according to what you actually sell, you begin purchasing what you truly need rather than what you think might be missing. Those small disciplines, repeated every day, can have an enormous impact on waste.

Then there is something the guest may not always think about: the positive impact of using local resources
responsibly and in season. Buying locally isn’t automatically sustainable; we still have to understand when a product is available, how it is produced, and whether we’re using that resource responsibly.

For me, sustainability is not one grand gesture. It is a collection of decisions made every day—purchasing
intelligently, managing inventory, reducing waste, respecting local resources and constantly asking ourselves whether we can do better.

My influences come from many places. Mexico City, China, France, Germany and Italy have all given me something, as have experiences with Thai food or even something as familiar as fried rice. I don’t think inspiration always has to come from fine dining.

Sometimes I bring home a technique and reinterpret it in my own kitchen, with my own flavors and the ingredients
available to me. Other times, what I bring home is simplicity. Experiencing another cuisine can remind me to come
back to the basics and ask whether a dish really needs anything more.

I also admire chefs outside Baja, including Chef Nancy Silverton and the Chef Lula Martin del Campo. They remind me that you can have a very distinct point of view without losing honesty or simplicity.

And then there are places like Restaurante Origen, like Mision 19, that remind me of what we are really representing: our ingredients, our identity and our sense of place. Global influences can expand your vocabulary, but I don’t want them to erase my accent.

Personally, that is the balance: learn everywhere, bring the technique home, and allow the place where you are
cooking to give it its identity.

Beyond trends, what kind of legacy do you hope to build—and how do you envision the future of Baja’s cuisine on the global stage?

If I can contribute in some small way to Baja receiving the recognition it deserves as a culinary destination, that
would be a meaningful legacy for me.

But legacy, for me, is also much closer to home. It is about cooking humbly alongside the cooks on my team, sharing what I have learned, continuing to learn from them, and remembering that no chef builds anything alone.

I also believe in coherence—in the food we serve, in what we charge for it, and in the experience we promise our guests. And perhaps most importantly, I believe in discipline over motivation. Motivation comes and goes; discipline is what keeps you showing up, learning, teaching and doing the work every day.

For Baja cuisine, I hope we continue to grow and gain international recognition without losing our identity. We
don’t need to become something else in order to be relevant globally. We need to become better at expressing who
we already are.